Memories Make Lonely Companions
by Blithe Novelties
Summary: Francis Bonnefoy was just as he saw reflected before him, an old, lonely man, with little but memories to call his own. Elderly!AU Human names used


**AN: Out of whim, I decided to write a France-centric AU, and this was what came out of it. Yes, the Jeanne mentioned is Jeanne D'Arc, though, instead of giving the two a romantic relationship, I gave them more of a brother-sister one. Iain is the name I chose to use as Scotland's human name for this particular fanfic.**

_**Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya**_

APH: Memories Make Lonely Companions:

Wrinkled hands, covered in smatterings of liver spots, reached shakily, for an old photograph on the rickety side table. Time had faded the black coloring into a dull grey, blending in almost perfectly with the lighter bits, and the white of the photo had gotten dingier through the years, yet Francis clearly could see the black and white picture in a whirlwind of colors. The focus of the snapshot was a young girl, hair done in a loose bun, sitting in a garden of roses; her whole face was glowing as she smiled back at him from the years past, and her eyes were still shining with mirth. His voice broke as her name tumbled from his lips, "Jeanne..."

The girl had been a good friend of the Frenchman in his youth, and he cared for her as dearly as a brother would for a sister. "She was such a sweet child. Headstrong, but beautiful..." Jeanne had brought it on herself to do whatever she pleased, never mind that climbing trees, dressing in trousers, and the like were activities considered unladylike, and was often scolded because of it. Francis had adored her wild spirit, and always swore he'd hurt anyone who dared to cause her harm.

...It had broken his heart when he found out that during the middle of one night, someone had broken into her house and murdered her while she slept. For weeks afterward, he has refused to leave his room, eating little, and sleeping less. Not a day went by that he didn't blame himself for her death, though, everyone told him that he wasn't to blame. _Older brothers are supposed to protect younger sisters, even if they are only pretending to be siblings. _

With tears sliding down his cheeks, the eighty five year old gently placed the photo of Jeanne back onto the table, before reaching for another one, with four boys around the age of sixteen. Three of them-those he recognized as himself, Antonio, and Gilbert-were beaming at the camera, arms tossed over each other's shoulder's in a gesture of friendship; off to his younger self's other side, away from the other boys, stood a freckled lad, hands shoved into his pockets as he scowled at the camera. Another pang of guilt struck him. Iain Kirkland had been his closest friend once, and the two were never far from each other's sides. Eventually, they had grown apart, and found new friends to spend time with. As far as Francis could recall, this was the last picture of the two of them together.

_I could look him up, and invite him over to make up for lost time..._It was only when he was putting it back in its place, next to the one of Jeanne, that he remembered that Iain had passed three weeks prior. "Your fault. You could have gotten into contact with him any time, but did you? Non, you waited and waited...and missed your chance."

There were more photos of the various people who had touched his life in different ways-Gilbert and Antonio, his two wonderful friends and fellow mischief makers; Arthur, Iain's younger brother, whom had always been fun to tease, seeing as how tempramental he was; Alfred and Matthew, the adorable little twins who loved following around the older boys of the neighborhood, trying to be "just like the big boys"; Feliciano, who considered Francis a friend, and his brother, Lovino, who did not... Each face, captured in time, brought forth an overwhelming wave of memories of things that he had done or should have done differently.

Whether they were relating to the persons or not made no matter whatsoever, as the recollections were like dominos: each one triggered another memory to be brought forth to his mind, and from that one came even more and so on.

It was only when the grandfather clocked chimed the hour that he was taken from the past, and placed once more in the present. With a small moan, he pushed himself out of the armchair he'd been sitting in, and shuffled into the bathroom to prepare for bed. Pausing before the mirror, Francis stared back at his reflection: blue eyes studying him blearily, from behind bifocals that were in need of a good cleaning, wrinkled face, and hair, gorgeous golden hair that was his pride and joy during his younger years, now limp and white. After the time spent with his memories, he'd almost expected..._Expected what? That you were young and handsome again? That being old was a dream about your future to be so you could right your wrongs? _

Whatever his hope had been, it was dashed when he'd caught a glimpse in the mirror; Francis Bonnefoy was just as he saw reflected before him, an old, lonely man, with little but memories to call his own.


End file.
